The Wolves of Seven Pines

by E. L. Ripley

  At least he’d come by it honestly.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Already tried running,” Carpenter replied, leaning out to pull over his belongings. He drew out his shotgun from its sheath and took a fistful of shot from the pouch. “And now my feet hurt.”

  That appeared to suit Silva. “I’m going to pay a call on Mr. Hale,” he said.

  “I don’t know how many men he’s got. Two or three at least.” Carpenter broke the shotgun open and loaded both barrels.

  “All the same, I think it’s imperative he hear my counterproposal.”

  “And if he don’t like it?”

  Silva pulled back the pistol’s hammer. “I’ll have five more.”

  “I’m sure the first will suit him.”

  “That won’t offend your delicate sensibilities?” Silva asked lightly.

  “He’s made his bed,” Carpenter grumbled, snapping the shotgun shut.

  A bullet from a rifle struck the column, sending stinging shards of stone flying. Carpenter cocked both hammers and stepped out, firing twice at John, who dove out of the way, landing among the flowers in the dark, then scrambling back up the hill.

  Silva ran into the dark, and Carpenter advanced up the path, opening the shotgun and tipping out the smoking cartridges before putting his back to the next column up. John and his pistol would be up there somewhere and all but impossible to see. Lights were going out in the house, and there was no moonlight to help.

  There was no telling where Joe was. And Hale?

  Well, the best way to find out would be to go see, and Carpenter couldn’t drag his feet, because Silva certainly wouldn’t be dragging his. He leaned out for a peek in the dark. Something moved, and he fired, sending dirt and stone flying. Carpenter twisted and went out into the shadows on the other side of the column, hurrying to the next one.

  “It’s so dark,” he called out, replacing the spent shot, “you’d hardly notice if a man decided to just leave and go on his way.”

  “I was just thinking the same thing,” Joe called down from the top of the hill, and he’d opened his mouth knowing perfectly well he was telling Carpenter just where he was.

  That could only have meant John was getting into place on the other side.

  Carpenter fired both barrels, and there was a cry of pain from behind the brush as at least some of the shot found flesh. He sank to a crouch, reloading the shotgun as John’s swearing filled the air.

  Joe fired twice, making Carpenter flinch and hunch over in the meager shelter. That was the trouble with being tall and broad. He shook his sore fist, which had a tendency to ache even when he hadn’t punched anyone, and jumped in surprise as a pistol shot put an abrupt end to John’s cursing.

  Carpenter saw John, younger, wearing his uniform, offering his tobacco pouch.

  Silva slipped into the shadow of the other pillar, now wearing a belt lined with cartridges and thumbing one into his commandeered revolver.

  “Mrs. Hale,” he shouted, conjuring a powerful voice for a man who wasn’t particularly large. “With a military man for a husband, I trust you’ve taught your children to duck? I will be calling on him presently,” he roared.

  With that, he fired three shots in the direction of where Carpenter suspected Joe to be, near the corner of the house, then drew back into shelter.

  “If he runs, I ain’t chasing him,” Carpenter warned.

  “He won’t,” Silva replied confidently, tipping the shells out of his pistol and loading it. “He’d rather die hoping he might win than live knowing he won’t.”

  “What if he surrenders?”

  “He won’t.”

  “If he does?”

  “Would he have let me live if I did?” Silva hissed.

  “Give it up, Bill,” Joe shouted down from above. “You want to live like a fool, that’s your business, but don’t die like one! I got the numbers and the high ground!”

  “Joe,” Carpenter snarled, leaning out, “you can wait your turn!” He fired twice, blasting away a window near the corner and showering the garden with wooden splinters. Silva fired several shots as well, and they both pulled back behind the columns.

  “You were correct when you said it,” Silva said, shaking more shells out. “I won’t be able to close my eyes as long as he draws breath. It’s that simple.”

  “I thought you were sentimental.”

  “Only for dogs.”

  “Look out,” Carpenter warned, pivoting to fire the shotgun back down the path, toward the firepit, where O’Doul was back on his feet. The Irishman got a shot off, but just the one before scrambling out of the way.

  Carpenter swore and dropped flat, crawling into the bushes. An uphill battle was bad enough on its own; having someone behind made it untenable. It was odd, though. He’d thought he’d hit O’Doul hard enough to keep him asleep for a good while. There was no telling if it was his notions that age had gotten to or his fist.

  It didn’t matter; pulling a trigger didn’t take much thought, and he’d used his fists enough. This wouldn’t be the first hill he’d ever helped take, and the last time he’d wormed his way through the dirt as well. Sometimes it felt as though he’d been worming his way along ever since.

  Three shots rang out from Silva’s pistol, answered by the crack of a rifle, and a vulgar taunt from a voice too young to belong to anyone who’d been in the war. That was more the pity; Hale even had his hired hands making themselves a part of this business.

  Carpenter could hear O’Doul moving up, none too stealthily, and he rolled onto his back and took aim.

  The breeze was picking up, but this rustling wasn’t just the wind. O’Doul crept into view and froze, realizing his mistake. He was still, kneeling in the dark, not making a sound, pistol in hand. He let go of it, and it fell to the dark, soft soil of the garden. Still looking straight ahead, he opened his mouth, but a bullet from up above took him through the throat. He looked down in surprise, touched the fountain of blood, and fell over.

  The first time Carpenter and O’Doul met, O’Doul had been complaining of another artillery unit, one that in its haste had fired on O’Doul’s former company by mistake.

  Throat tight, Carpenter slowly inched away on his back, keeping the shotgun at the ready. There was a shout of triumph.

  “I got the one on the right,” someone called out.

  Someone would be along to check the body, and Silva opened fire again. Even the way he was shooting sounded angry. Where Silva had found the vigor to do all this after their days in the wilderness, Carpenter couldn’t fathom. He didn’t even feel up to getting off the ground.

  Though he supposed he’d have to. They’d move up now, confident that there was only a lone enemy, and that confidence would not be to Silva’s advantage.

  “The hell you’ve killed me! All you done is killed Bear O’Doul, you dumb son of a bitch,” Carpenter bellowed, rolling over and crawling swiftly. Giving away his position was worth it if he could sow a little chaos on the other side, and knowing they’d shot one of their own would hurt almost as much as a bullet would.

  He rose to a crouch and hurried to the next bit of brush, only for several bullets to come punching through. He got down flat, wondering if he’d even know if he was shot; he’d never been so sore in his life.

  There was one on the porch, up there behind the pillar with a revolver in his hand. With a rifle and eyes that were twenty years younger, or even ten, Carpenter could’ve gotten him. As it was, there was nothing he could do about him, though the fellow wasn’t even entirely concealed. As soon as Silva noticed him, he was done for.

  There was another on the balcony, and that would be Isaiah with his Henry rifle and enough patience not to fire at anything he wasn’t certain he could kill. He was the real problem; Carpenter knew perfectly well he was up there, but Silva likely didn’t.

  F
lowers waved against the wind on the far side of the garden; someone was trying to circle around Silva, who was somewhere in there, probably among the rippling tiers of blue petals, which would have looked very nice indeed if the garden weren’t a battlefield.

  And Joe—where was Joe?

  Carpenter squinted through a gap in the leaves and took careful aim. He fired, blowing away a modest chunk of the handrail and giving Isaiah something to think about. With that, he rolled over and hurried off over the garden soil and into the trees, putting his back to the bark and taking a look at the east side of the house.

  Glass shattered; some idiot had just announced which window he was watching, and Silva took the bait and fired. There was a shout of alarm from inside the house, and Carpenter didn’t have a choice. He pivoted into the open and fired just as Isaiah did, making the dark figure on the balcony duck.

  He didn’t hear Silva yell, so Isaiah had probably missed. Carpenter broke open the shotgun to load it, squinting at the shadows in frustration.

  A window on the east side opened, and Carpenter hoped to see small or female forms emerging; it would be best if Hale’s family took this opportunity for what it was and got out.

  But it was a man who climbed out, though there was no telling which one in the dark.

  Carpenter had to move, but he had to choose his steps carefully; there was no doubt that Isaiah and his rifle were now searching for him, not Silva. He considered his options. What he really needed to take this hill was some artillery.

  He snorted and crept into the dark.

  “Hang it up, you damn fool!” William was shouting. “Bill Carpenter had you right, Silva! You don’t know when you’re beat!”

  That was a pity; it would’ve been better if the boy hadn’t shown up for this. He was too young to do what was smart, but that wouldn’t save him from Silva. And he couldn’t hold his tongue, but Silva could. Carpenter had seen enough to know that Silva hadn’t carried that fancy gun entirely for show. He was better than most men would be inclined to credit him for, seeing his clothes and manner. If he got close enough, Hale’s men would learn a painful lesson.

  But to reach the house, he’d have to leave the protection of the flowers and cross ten paces of open ground, covered not only by Isaiah but by this fellow who’d come out of the house around the side, one of Hale’s younger hired hands. He was likely the one who’d shot O’Doul, and he was eyeing the rows of flowers intently, holding something in his hand and rubbing it with his thumb.

  “That’s dangerous,” Carpenter murmured. The man looked back in surprise, and Carpenter struck him with the butt of his shotgun, throwing him against the side of the house. He slid to the ground without a word, and Carpenter bent to pick up the unlit stick of dynamite. Well, it was one way to try to flush someone out, though Mrs. Hale might not take kindly to having her garden blown to bits.

  Carpenter took the man’s place at the corner of the house, but there was movement from inside the broken window. He froze, but he’d already been heard. An Army revolver appeared, firing wildly. Carpenter grabbed the wrist and jerked the man through, sending him tumbling to the ground. It was another young fellow.

  Carpenter cracked him on the temple with the shotgun as he reached for his gun, and that put him to sleep without fanfare. All the same, it didn’t matter how quiet he was: he was standing in the open, and Isaiah was there on the balcony, drawing a bead on him.

  Silva rose from the flowers and fired from a distance of at least thirty yards. The bullet went through Isaiah’s shoulder, twisting his body and sending the barrel of his rifle wide. Silva advanced, cocking the pistol and lifting it to fire a second time, this time landing his shot square in the middle of Isaiah’s chest.

  In the gloom, Isaiah looked more surprised than anything. He fell against the side of the house, then slumped onto the railing. His rifle slipped from his fingers and fell, clattering on the porch below.

  Carpenter might have stood and stared a moment longer, his memories crowding behind his eyes, but a man at the far corner was taking aim. He snapped up the shotgun and fired, making him think twice, and Silva fired as well from the hip, all three shots as quickly as he could.

  The noise of pain that came next meant that one of them had hit the man.

  Carpenter dumped the empty shells out of the shotgun. Silva did the same with his pistol as he strode out of the flowers, his gaze fixed on the house.

  Drops of black blood dripped from above, where Isaiah was draped over the railing. It seemed as though there wasn’t enough light to tell which way was up, but somehow there was enough to see that Isaiah’s eyes were still open.

  The blood fell on the rifle, the same rifle that Isaiah had held out by the barrel when they’d crossed the Appomattox, and Carpenter had grabbed on and let Isaiah help haul him up onto the bank.

  Silva was going to the door, and he took his place on the right, slipping the last cartridge into his pistol and cocking it. Without a word, Carpenter took his place on the left.

  O’Doul. John. Isaiah. And Silva had done for one or two more by the sounds of things.

  It should have been enough.

  “Women and children in there,” Carpenter warned him, reaching into his shirt pocket for more shot. “You made your point. No need to walk through this door.”

  “My eyes aren’t as tired as yours,” Silva replied, the sweat shining on his bare chest. “I won’t shoot anything I don’t mean to kill.”

  “You mean to kill my past?”

  “Better your past than your future.”

  “Do I look like I worry about my future?”

  “Well, I still have one,” Silva said, “even if you don’t.”

  “Then walk away,” Carpenter told him frankly. “Let him go.”

  “I do not think we will agree on this.”

  Carpenter made tables. Silva made rifles. There had never been any danger of them agreeing on anything. It wasn’t worth arguing over, and the past couldn’t be killed in any case; it could only be buried.

  Silva kicked the door open and stepped aside as a bullet sailed past.

  “Mrs. Hale,” he called out, “identify yourself so that my associate and I might know where not to shoot!”

  The silence from the house was deafening. Silva had been right, though Carpenter hadn’t doubted him. There hadn’t been even the single sound of a horse. No one was fleeing. A part of Carpenter hoped that Hale had at the very least sent his children out of the house on the other side, quietly. It was the same part of him that kept hoping to wake up in his bed in Richmond.

  He peered cautiously around the doorframe; the house was dark, though light danced on the wall. He could just see the fire in the parlor’s hearth, still crackling merrily. If they had any sense, they’d be on either side, and such that they wouldn’t hit each other in the cross fire. Carpenter indicated that with his eyes.

  “We’d warn you,” he called out. “But we’d be wasting our breath. Dead men don’t take a hint.” Carpenter slung the stick of dynamite through the doorway and into the fireplace. The resulting blast would have been modest on a mountainside, but inside it was overwhelming. A fog of angry black dust and soot exploded through the house, whose tortured groaning was barely audible behind the ringing in Carpenter’s ears.

  He went through the doorway, firing both barrels at the men in the kitchen, who were trying to pick themselves up from the floor. Silva advanced boldly, firing repeatedly at someone in the hallway.

  One of the hired hands actually stumbled out into the open, bleeding from his ears, no weapon in his hand. Carpenter just knocked him down and stepped over him, coughing.

  Silva turned like lightning and fired from the hip. Carpenter looked back in surprise to see Fred in the doorway, now with a hole in his belly. He fell to his knees, then onto his face.

  “You should’ve hit him harder,” S
ilva said, but went to the right without waiting for a reply, vanishing into the smoke.

  Carpenter stared at Fred’s body a moment longer, then coughed again and lifted his shotgun, pressing forward. The room to his right shrieked, and the ceiling fell in, blowing a storm of embers into the corridor. He shielded his face and pushed through, only to see the lamplight flicker, or appear to. It was a passing shadow.

  He turned and fired through the wall. There was no scream or cry, just a groan. Carpenter stepped forward and leaned into the doorway to look, seeing Joe standing there in the smoke, his gun in hand.

  Carpenter brought up the shotgun and moved in. “Put it down,” he warned, squinting with burning eyes and trying to breathe with a throat full of soot.

  But Joe wasn’t waiting for him. He might’ve been a moment ago, but now he was looking down at his bloody hand and the stain spreading from his belly. He looked up and focused on Carpenter, then took a step back and collapsed.

  He made a noise of pain, gazing at the ceiling.

  Carpenter stood over him, watching him try to breathe.

  “Bill,” he said thickly, peering up at him. His Navy revolver was still in his hand, slick with blood, but he made no effort to use it. Maybe he wouldn’t have tried to use it to begin with.

  “Yeah, Joe?”

  “Is it true, what Will said? That you couldn’t put down your own horse?”

  Carpenter sighed. After a moment, he shook his head.

  “No. It ain’t true,” he told him, lifting the shotgun and cocking the hammer for the remaining barrel. “I did. In the end.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Hale was in the dining room, and his wife and children were with him.

  A bad day could always get worse.

  Seeing that no one lurked just inside the door, Silva entered the room with his pistol ready, trained on Hale, though he was just behind his wife. Carpenter was relieved to see William with empty hands; at least Hale had had enough sense to know his eldest would surely do something foolish if armed.